


Twelve Minutes

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-04
Updated: 2007-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took twelve minutes, and it was their longest drive together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: marinarusalka asked for "gen h/c shmoop" for her birthday. Because she is the awesome, I wrote this for her, which may or may not fit the definition of "shmoop," but I had the shmoopiest of intentions, honest I did. Thank you to iamstealthyone for the quick and thorough beta. Set a few weeks after Everybody Loves a Clown.

It took twelve minutes, and it was their longest drive together.

The windows of the house still flickered with the aftereffects of the spirit's ghostly hissy fit as Dean and Sam ran down the steps, which creaked under their weight. Dean glanced back, watching as feeble streams of red, blue and green light shot outward through dusty, cracked stained glass into the dark.

The lights were only the half of it -- the doors were banging and there was a strange, low, angry humming sound like wind. It was amazing half the neighborhood wasn't awake, but then, these people had lived with the old Sanderson place being empty and haunted for about fifty years now. Probably everyone was just turning over in their beds to find a more comfortable position, putting a pillow over their heads against the annoyance and going back to sleep.

Which was just as well. Dean hated explaining things to civilians.

He still tasted dust and mildew on his tongue, and beside him he heard Sam taking gasping breaths of the fresh night air.

True, they'd run like hell out of the house, but Sam shouldn't be that winded.

Something was wrong.

Dean grabbed the sleeve of Sam's jacket, tugging him across the lawn, out through the wrought-iron gate. Dean half expected the prongs to reach out and attack them, the way the house was carrying on.

They reached the sidewalk, and Dean tugged aside Sam's jacket as Sam leaned back against the pole of the streetlight. Now that they had more light, Dean noticed a shine of sweat on Sam's face, and the way his jawline had gone tense. His fingers met the dampness of blood soaking Sam's shirt and when Dean poked gently, checking the damage, Sam hissed through his teeth.

Dean immediately pulled his fingers away; they were wet with blood.

"Shit. Sam. Okay. Okay, we have to..." Dean tugged him away from the pole, where Sam seemed stuck like that kid's tongue in _A Christmas Story_.

"Yeah. No, I'm all right." Sam's voice sounded weak, a little scratchy. "One of the banister posts hit me when the house started throwing things at us." Sam detached himself from Dean's grip and started walking, hand pressed to his side.

"Hit you? Dude, you're lucky you weren't impaled."

The Impala was parked one block away, waiting for them underneath the branches of a low-hanging pine, its new coat of paint shining blacker than the shadows of that peaceful suburban street.

Dean opened the passenger-side door and snagged Sam where he had decided to sit his ass on the hood. As he guided Sam into the car and down onto the bench, Sam's face scrunched into a wince.

In the brightness of the car's overhead light, he could now take a thorough injury assessment. There was a lot of blood, a lot more than he would have expected given that it was just a bit of flying wood that looked as if it had only glanced off of Sam.

Stupid fucking haunted house. Lame-ass gingerbread trim. It even had a _turret_ , for crying out loud. As if 1313 Mockingbird Lane, or maybe the Addams Family mansion, had decided to take a piece out of Sam.

"Hospital," Dean said, and shut the passenger door before Sam could argue. He ran around to the driver's side, pulling the keys out of the pocket of his leather jacket. They fell into the grass between the sidewalk and the curb, and he wasted thirty seconds fumbling around for them.

Stupid fucking keys. He finally yanked open the driver's-side door so he could use the interior light to help him find them in the grass. He grabbed them, then ducked into the car.

Before he started the engine, he reached into the back seat and found the first-aid kit. He popped the lid, pulled out a several packets of gauze, ripped them open, and handed them to Sam.

"Press the gauze over the wound and hold it there," Dean ordered, and Sam obeyed so quickly and obediently, like he used to when he was five, that Dean's stomach went a little bit closer to ice.

Over the squeal of tires as they pulled away from the curb, he heard Sam say faintly, "Hospital?"

"You heard me. Hospital."

Sam turned his head too slowly to look at him. "But we don't usually...it's not that bad. I mean it's just..."

"A lot of blood, Sam," Dean said, clipped.

He didn't bother with the first stoplight they came to. It was two o'clock in the morning anyway, not as if there would be any kids playing in the street or little old ladies crossing with their groceries.

There was a stoplight after that, and he didn't bother with that either, although he slowed a little to check before stepping hard on the gas.

Sam was leaning his shoulder against the door now, kind of tilted to one side, as if it was his turn to nap during driving shifts. In the intermittent moments of light, his skin looked pale, and he was definitely sweating.

"Yo, dorkface!" Dean lightly smacked him on the back of the head.

"What?" Sam sat up. He made an annoyed face that quickly changed to the face that meant he might throw up any second now.

"Nothin'." Dean put his eyes back on the road, trying not to look at his hands on the steering wheel, at the blood on his fingers.

When he glanced over at his brother again, Sam had leaned back, his eyes closed.

Dean took his right hand from the wheel and threw the empty soda can that had been wedged on the dashboard at Sam. The can bounced off the passenger window and hit Sam's chest.

When Sam grabbed the can and tossed it tiredly into the back seat, Dean saw how much blood had soaked into the gauze Sam held to his side with his other hand.

They were going eighty now, creeping up to eighty-five, and hell, they always scoped out hospital locations before big jobs, it should only be a fifteen-minute drive tops. How long had it been now?

Lights flashed by them, blurry circles that meant nothing. Seemed as if all of reality, right then, was the roar of the engine, the length from dashboard to trunk, the width from door to door.

"I figure we'll go back in a few days and take care of the ghost," Dean said, his fingers tightening around the wheel. "Can't just leave it there bumping around and scaring the neighbors, right?"

"Right."

That sounded too sleepy, a little slurred.

"I mean, we'll prepare better next time. Salt lines and holy water, that wasn't enough. What we need is a containment ritual."

Dean felt like he was babbling and realized that's because he was.

"You can find one of those, right, geek boy? Probably take you five minutes flipping through Dad's journal. And if it's not there, we'll check out the closest rare-book shop." Dean rubbed his knuckle against his chin, then looked away from the road to his brother. "Sam? You still with me?"

"Yeah, I'm still with you."

What had made him think they were ready to hunt? Because the car was whole again? Christ, he still got winded during his morning runs. But he'd grown restless, or bored, or something, heard about the haunting, insisted, and Sam went willingly, while Bobby glowered from under his cap and muttered about asshats.

"Your eyes were closed."

"They're not closed now."

Yeah, Sam's eyes were open, and also distant, a little glassy.

Dean put his gaze back on the yellow lines burning out of the dark, stretching ahead of them on the blacktop. "But your eyes were closed. Before."

A horn blared at them, and the other guy had to stop as Dean barreled through the intersection. Too damn bad. This wasn't the first time he'd wished he had one of those flashing gumdrop lights to put on the hood of the Impala. Aside from the coolness factor, it would actually be practical. Fool people into believing they were cops, they'd get out of the way fast enough.

"How do you feel?"

"Kind of fuzzy. Hurts."

Up ahead the big EMERGENCY sign marking the hospital's ER entrance appeared. It grew larger in the windshield, and then at last, they were there, pulling up in front of it.

He got Sam inside, through the automatic doors that hissed open for them, imagining a nightmare scenario where they staggered together up to the desk and were given a number, told to go wait interminably while Sam bled out on the vinyl cushions of the waiting room.

But Sam must've looked as bad as Dean thought he looked, because two RNs ran over to collect him. Someone else thrust a clipboard with pen and paperwork at Dean, but he shoved it away.

He grabbed Sam's sleeve as if it was a rope in a storm.

"Don't fucking _die_ on me," he muttered in his brother's ear as they helped him onto a gurney.

He saw the surprise in Sam's eyes as he lay back, and oh, that woke up him up good, should've thought of that earlier.

One of the RNs told him to move aside, once, twice. "He'll be fine, sir, let us work. Sir?"

"Hey," Sam said softly.

It wasn't three words like _I'll be okay_ ; because that wasn't going to cut it for them anymore, not by a long shot. Still, with one syllable, Dean remembered to breathe. The blood stopped rushing quite so loudly in his ears.

But it wasn't until Sam grabbed his arm just above the elbow, squeezed and let go, that Dean was able to unclench his fingers from Sam's jacket.

Sam gave him a lopsided smile, and Dean mustered a faint grin in return, because he thought that was what Sam wanted to see.

Took a few hours, but finally they had Sam patched up and discharged. The two of them stepped out into the gray pre-dawn, Sam walking a bit gingerly but no longer as if he might fall over at any second. Dean began to mentally practice an apology, and wondered if he'd actually wind up saying it or not.

When they reached the car, Sam paused and rested his hands on the roof. "Thanks."

The fourth version of an apology Dean had come up with stuttered to a halt in his mind. "For what?"

"Getting me here so fast."

"Sam..." Dean stopped. The roof stretched between them, their reflections murky in the half-light. _My bad judgment..._ "Yeah. What a crap-ass haunted house."

They got into the car, which was cool after being empty half the night. Sam settled himself more comfortably, shifting on the bench.

Dean put the key into the ignition, and when he spoke, the words that came out weren't the ones he'd planned to say.

"Thanks for not dying."


End file.
